


Twenty-Five Hours

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Injury, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:48:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29424831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: One day, he might not come back. A lake house story.
Relationships: August Walker/You
Kudos: 3





	Twenty-Five Hours

This is a true story, but not a real one. This is everything you hoped for and everything you’re never going to get. It’s a dream, a fantasy. And so what if it never happened (never happens, but never say never; you know what he’s like and the strange things he’s capable of). So what, so what. It’s a true thing, and the house will hold it close. 

It’s raining again, because it’s always fucking raining; it roars against the porch roof and falls heavy on the lake; the trout are jumping like an omen, and the absence of him is felt heavy in the air. 

_Never got the hang of fishing._

If you think about it (and you try not to think about it but you can’t help it) it’s possible to pinpoint the exact moment when you knew that it was over. He stood and watched the rain and he was naked; wan light rippled over the curve of his ass and he said _I don’t want to, but I have to._

_So don’t._

But August is committed to whatever crusade he’s on; he leaves at first light and his footprints are smeared dark through the dew gathered on the lawn. It rains again and it is like he was never there (or never left; maybe he’s just in the next room and if you’re fast enough you’ll see him, writing by the window or shrugging off his shirt, a steaming shower going and everywhere is fog and mist and _won’t you join me?)_

_(Anywhere you go I’d follow. All you have to do is ask._

_I know. That’s why I can’t.)_

Here is August; he’s lost his clothes in some other room like the house could hope to hold him (like you could); 

_What’s one more week? Stay with me._

_One hour._

_One day._ And so one day it is; even that’s more compromise than he ever thought he’d make. One day. And it’s a day he spends inside you, til at last you’re raw and chafing, til at last he slips softly from the heat of you and it’s not like the sex was the point, but still. 

_Don’t look for me._

Like you could help but do anything else. But days become weeks become months and the whispers on the wind have since died out; Paris, Milan, even fucking _Hoboken_ had rumors of a man like August, a man with a plan to shake the tree and the means to do it if only—

( _What’s this?_

_It’s nothing to do with you._

_August. What are you planning?)  
_  
What are you planning? No word for weeks, no funeral, not even a box of knickknacks from his desk. It’s like he was never there. There’s just an envelope with a key and an unmarked map. _Most people just get chocolates._

_Don’t wait for me.  
_  
But the house is full of promise; shadows play across the walls in ways they shouldn’t, ghosts of some other time (some other person, maybe, waiting for a lover of their own). All those shadows thicken in layers on the walls; they leave drifts of possibility in all the corners. And still no August. _What did you expect?_

_I hoped I’d find you here. I hoped that no news was good news. Whatever it was, it was bad and it was dangerous. I saw it in your eyes. You knew you wouldn’t come back. But still I hoped._

_Wishes and horses._

_Cram it, August. Can’t you see I’m mad at you?_

_Hn._

_Well don’t just— don’t— August? I._

And he is there, solid, warm and steaming wet with rain; he’s thinner than he used to be and _Christ,_ the scars, the _scars_ — they shift and writhe like living things and _is it you?_

_As much as I am anyone._

He is hurting still; his face is tight with pain; the cadence of his steps is changed but he meets you in the middle of the room and his hands are on you, sure and steady. 

_You’re hurt._

_Yes._

_You’re here._

_Yes._

_You’re alive._

_Pet. Your thoughts are out of order._ And maybe so, maybe so, but

_August. You won’t turn into a pumpkin, will you? You’ll stay?_ And he doesn’t answer; he takes you to the bed and lays you down; he is wreathed with new scars, burns and broken bones and all the shrapnel of a hard and dangerous life. 

_(I will leave sometimes and you won’t know where I’ve gone. You can’t know. And one day I might not come back. Don’t look for me. Don’t wait for me. Build your life._

_You’ll come back. If I have to go to hell and fetch you myself, you’ll come back.)_

He is careful and quiet; when he comes it’s like a sigh, when he pulls you after him he sees your tears and _pet. Oh pet. Don’t cry for me._ It’s tender and it’s wrong, how soft he is, how light his hands are on your flanks. It’s everything he’s been through all stacked up against him; in winter he will feel the chill air aching in his bones but _it’s alright. See, look. It’s tomorrow and I’m here._

And so it is tomorrow; midnight ticks over and it’s Valentine’s again. Strange that once you would’ve wanted chocolates, wanted flowers; now all you want is more than one day. And curling into August’s side, you wait to see what happens when daylight comes. 

(It’ll rain; it’s always fucking raining. You’ll wake although you never meant to sleep; the bed is warm and the blankets are heavy on you. And there, beside you—)


End file.
